


asylum

by paisparker



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabble, Fluff, Hidden meanings, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Metaphors, No Smut, Shh Potter, Short, Symbolism, boys cuddling, it’s canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22281409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paisparker/pseuds/paisparker
Summary: “Heyheyhey could you please write something angsty af about the “shh potter is only me” concept?? Pleeeease”yemie-milkovich
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Kudos: 59





	asylum

**Author's Note:**

> this is just one long asf paragraph cuz I couldn’t decide how to separate them and in the end decided not to at all

There was something almost, soporific, about the nights when Boris—gangly limbs pale as the moonlight and freckled like stardust, would reach out as if he were a sailor tossed overboard, seeking to grasp a life preserver; his cool-to-the-touch skin would drag around my waist, fingers idly dancing along my hip bone. I had grown to be quite accustomed to having an extra dip in the bed, and although I admitted it reluctantly to no one but myself, I more often than not could no longer sleep alone. On the nights where I was strangled awake, choking on the memory of smoke and rubble, his raspy voice was there, breathe warm against the shell of my ear, lips—chapped as per usual, would press lightly against my head, singing his lullabies—sometimes they were Polish, sometimes Swedish, usually Ukrainian—and whisper me back to sleep. “Shh Potter, shh... Is just me.” He would say, at times when I would wake up, startled enough to punch at the faceless man who knocked down the first domino—to punch at nothing in reality except Boris who was unfortunately there, however fortunate it actually was that he was present as I’d’ve punched a hole in the wall perhaps, had he not been. It was one of the many things we didn’t speak a word of when the sun peaked through the window, illuminating every speck of dust as if to say “I can see you now, the moon isn’t the only one who knows the secrets you keep.” If we were too hungover than the blanket would become our solace, shrouding us in darkness once more, covering everything in a way that made us blind to see, and anyone else unable to see the whole story underneath—to see the bruises made either from rough housing or the impractical nights where thigh met thigh and chest met chest and everything was like a racecar: fast enough to see but too fast to remember the details of every move, every twist and bend and times the wheels kissed the dirt instead of staying on the track like it should. On those mornings when our heads ached from the alcohol we so recklessly downed, and we decided instead of moving to stay with our bodies intertwined sleepily—before gaining enough conscienceness to push ourselves away from where my head met the crook of his neck or his hands were inside my shorts just resting on the back side of my thigh, we had some sort of ironically unspoken rule, to not speak at all; to not lose ourselves in the grotesque confrontation of what we had done, so our dynamic—whatever that may be, wasn’t ruined. Somewhere in a parallel universe, I’m sure there’s a Boris and Theo who cracked the mirror; who broke the pattern and with that, tore the sanctuary we built to nothing more than debris made of shattered glass and scraps of fabric. I don’t want us to be that Boris and Theo. I don’t want our haven to become corrupt—although it’s become more of an asylum than anything; made to protect one from danger, but it itself harboring perilous conflicts nonetheless: ones of fists swinging, sand in the eyes, narcotics and fistfuls of my despair. There was one Saturday, where Xandra and my father had been sitting in the kitchen early morning—and it was to my assumption a Friday where they would’ve been at work, and I had decided to walk down the stairs to get some water as my throat had been as dry as the air outside, and came to halt when we met each other’s eyes. I was shirtless, for reasons I can dub to simply being too hot, but I dashed back upstairs anyways, and tossed on a dark t-shirt which was probably Boris’ with how it was down to my mid-thighs. I had shoved him awake, sharply saying his name, until he woke up with a confused expression. “What are you doing? Is weekend, Potter, come back to bed.” He had murmured to me. “I know it’s the weekend dipshit! I just walked downstairs shirtless and Xandra and my Dad saw me!” I retorted. The slavic boy mumbled a “so?” before I began to ramble at him—slowly adjusting to the light and getting out of the bed, about how they might’ve seen the crimson and purple splotches that I couldn’t see without a mirror. I had put a chip in the glass reflection that day. I didn’t see Boris for two weeks following, though I did meet him in my dreams; ugly dreams of yelling and fist fighting and sometimes just of us lying in the middle of the street at daylight, with him overtop of me—arms caging me in and my hands clutched in his knotted curls, a sense of anxiety and dread overpowering everything else that might’ve been good. Terrible sleep, if any at all, because there was no one there to coax me back to rest when I started up with my eyes wide open. I’d place Popchyk on my chest like Boris had done several times, but it was nowhere near the same. When he showed up at my pool on a Friday afternoon, I sat next to him—but not close enough for our legs to touch, and we watched the sun shimmer on the water, passing a beer bottle between us. “Let’s swim.” Boris decided, and we discarded our shirts and pants—keeping on our boxers, and jumped into the lukewarm water. It was symbolic almost, replacing the regret with chlorine. Slowly but surely we got back to hands splayed across each other’s chests, pushing at each other, and elbows jabbed into our sides in a playful fighting manner—using violence once again as an excuse to touch, and starting the loop of avoidance all over again.


End file.
